A Walk in the Park
by heisey
Summary: Two weeks after Jim comes home from the hospital, Jim and Christie take a walk in the park, and they, especially Christie, have a very bad day.


A Walk in the Park

"Jimmy?"

I walked into our apartment, wondering where Jimmy was. In the two weeks since his discharge from the hospital, I'd been working from home, but today I decided to go in to the office for a couple of hours. It wouldn't do for my chief editor, Clay Simmons, to start thinking he could get along without me.

I opened the bedroom door. Jimmy was stretched out on the bed, his back to me. I wasn't sure if he was awake, but as I took a step back and started to close the door, he spoke.

"Christie?"

"Yes. . . . I thought you were sleeping."

He sat up and turned in my direction, his gaze directed slightly down and to my left. I still wasn't used to the absence of eye contact. I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to it.

"I was."

"Oh. I'm sorry I woke you. But since you're awake, how about going for a walk in the park?"

He shrugged. "I don't really feel like it right now."

"Come on, Jimmy, it's a beautiful day outside."

"So what?"

I sighed. "Jimmy, you know what the doctor said. You need to walk to get your strength back."

He lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture but said, "Okay."

"I'll meet you at the front door. Your shoes are at the foot of the bed, by the way."

"I know where they are. I put them there."

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water before our walk. I didn't like what I was seeing. A week ago, the doctor had told us there was virtually no chance of Jimmy's sight returning. We'd both suspected the truth, but hearing it from the doctor gave it finality. Since then, Jimmy had been sleeping more than usual, and when he was awake, it was a battle to persuade him to do anything. Most days, he didn't even shave, claiming it was too much trouble, and if I hadn't insisted on a change of clothes, he might have worn the same rumpled T-shirt and jeans every day. At mealtimes, he picked at his food, claiming he wasn't hungry. When I tried to talk to him, he responded in grunts or monosyllables, or not at all. I knew what was happening. My mother had struggled with depression for most of her life, and I knew the signs. What I didn't know was how to reach him.

I waited by the front door, watching Jimmy make his way deliberately across the living room. In my head, I counted steps along with him. Even before he left the hospital, he received some basic instruction in techniques for "activities of daily living," such as eating, shaving, and moving around in indoor spaces. I had received training, too. There had been a home visit, to check for obstacles and hazards. From now on, "a place for everything and everything in its place" was the rule we would have to live by. A neatnik by nature, I found it easy to comply, but Jimmy was often impatient with the necessity to keep things in their places. It was painful to watch his anger and frustration when he couldn't find something he had not put back in its proper place. I'd tell him where the missing item was, fighting the temptation to tell him "I told you so."

Sometimes I hated our walks. Too often, people either stared at Jimmy pityingly or looked away as soon as they saw him. I never told Jimmy about other people's reactions to seeing him. He didn't need to know. But I felt guilty about withholding information from him.

Today was no different. As we walked along the riverfront, some of the people stared at us, or quickly averted their eyes when they noticed Jimmy was blind. A little boy, no more than seven years old, stared at Jimmy until his mother whispered, "Don't stare at that man, Daniel."

"Why, mommy?"

"He can't see. It isn't nice to stare at a handicapped person."

I was sure Jimmy had heard. He didn't say anything, but his grip on my arm tightened. I had had enough. Struggling to control my anger, I took several deep breaths and muttered, "Let's get out of here."

As we walked out of the park, I studiously ignored the people around us, but I was still shaking with anger. I wondered if Jimmy could feel me shaking, but he didn't mention it. There was a Starbucks on our way home. I suggested to Jimmy that we stop for a cup of coffee; I could definitely use one.

"If you want to," he said, without enthusiasm.

As we walked into the coffee shop, I saw the young woman behind the counter take in Jimmy's dark glasses and his hand on my arm, and I recognized the moment when Jimmy's blindness registered. She took my order, then asked me, "And what will he have?"

"Ask him," I snapped. "He can tell you for himself."

She recoiled, as if I'd slapped her. "Yes. . . of course," she stammered. "What would you like, sir?"

I looked over at Jimmy. The tightness of his jaw told me he was embarrassed, but he simply told her what he wanted. After he placed his order, I led him to a table and returned to the counter to pay and pick up our coffees. I was mortified. I had snapped at that young woman, who didn't know any better, and, what was worse, I had embarrassed Jimmy. I wished there was a trap door in the floor I could disappear into, but I knew what I had to do. When I reached the counter, I took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm just having a bad day."

She looked over at Jimmy, then back at me, a look of pity on her face. "No problem."

When I returned to our table, Jimmy seemed lost in thought and wouldn't respond when I tried to apologize. We drank our coffees in silence and went home.

After we got there, I headed for the bathroom in search of some Tylenol for the headache I could feel coming on, but Jimmy's voice stopped me.

"What just happened back there?"

I turned and saw him standing by the column in the living room, which he used as a landmark when moving around the apartment. "Nothing," I replied.

"Christie," he said reproachfully, "I was there. That wasn't 'nothing.'"

"I know. It's just . . . people can be so stupid sometimes. They think, just because you can't see, you can't order a cup of coffee for yourself? And when we were at the park . . . people stare, or they won't even look at you. What do they think, they're going to go blind if they look at you? What's wrong with them?"

He frowned and shook his head. "Who knows?"

"I'm sorry, Jimmy, I shouldn't let it get to me. But it just makes me so angry to see the way some people look at you, or won't look at you, and it happens every time we go somewhere."

"Every time? Why haven't you told me this before?"

"I just . . .felt you didn't need to know."

"Jesus, Christie, what else aren't you telling me?"

Nothing . . . I mean, I just thought it would upset you."

He turned toward me and, for an instant, seemed to look directly at me. "Don't do me any more favors, Christie." Without another word, he walked past me and into the bedroom.

Shaken, I went over to the couch and sank down. I had just shown Jimmy he was at the mercy of sighted people, who could choose to tell him – or not—about things he couldn't see for himself. And I had just given him something else to brood about, which was the last thing he needed. Suddenly, it was all too much. I can't do this, I thought. My anger, fear and grief overwhelmed me. I dashed to the bathroom, trying to hold back my tears and hoping that Jimmy wouldn't hear me. Once inside the bathroom, I closed the toilet lid, sat down, and gave in to my tears. I don't know how long I sat there, sobbing uncontrollably. Every time I thought I was regaining control, I would think of Jimmy's plight and what his life – our lives – would be like from now on, and the tears would come again. I continued crying until I was finally able to suppress those thoughts.

With a semblance of self-control restored, I washed my face, combed my hair, and went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I didn't have much appetite, and I knew Jimmy would say he wasn't hungry, but the task of cooking occupied my mind and helped me maintain my composure. When dinner was almost ready, I went into the bedroom. Jimmy was lying on the bed, his back to the door.

"Jimmy?" I called. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," he replied, without turning toward me.

I spoke to his back. "Dinner's almost ready."

He gave the answer I expected: "I'm not very hungry."

"I know," I replied, "neither am I. But we should eat something. At least you can keep me company."

"Okay," he agreed, reluctantly.

We sat at the bar to eat. I told Jimmy what was for dinner and where the food was on his plate, but he seemed uninterested, as usual. He took a few bites, then put his fork down and sat in silence. I decided to tell him about the idea that had grown in my mind as I was preparing dinner. This probably wasn't a good time, but I doubted there would ever be a good time.

"Jimmy," I began hesitantly, "I've been thinking. . . ."

"Oh, yeah?"

"We can't do this alone. We need help."

"What do you mean, help?"

"Professional help, like a therapist."

"You want me to spill my guts to some shrink?"

"Jimmy . . ."

He cut me off. "No way." He stood up and walked back into the bedroom.


End file.
